Learn to be Loved
by GAKDragonMCP
Summary: The Phantom learns years later what an astounding gift quiet love can be. Character histories heavily based on Susan Kay's novel Phantom, the events of the mysterious affair follow the ALW musical. Prologue is purely from the 2004 movie REVISED!
1. Prologue

Learn to be Loved

Disclaimer: (_n_) a denial of legal responsibility; a written statement embodying this.  
I do not own these characters. Their original owner is Guy Leroux.  
Summary: (_n_) a brief account of the main points of something.  
Based on the ending of the 2004 film, the Phantom learns years later what an astounding gift quiet love can be  
Distribution: (_n_) a distributing or a being distributed; allotment; a thing distributed… _as pertaining to commerce_: the marketing of goods to customers, their handling, and transport.  
Take it and host it, so long as my name stays on it as Author.  
Spoiler(s): (_n_) a projecting structure on an aircraft wing that increases drag - what the...? I'd better use 'to spoil:' (_v_) to damage as to make useless, etc; to impair the enjoyment of. Or spoilsport: (_n_) a person who spoils the fun of others.  
All of them. Don't bother reading if you're not a fan of Phantom of the Opera, or have never seen/read it.  
Rating: (_n_) an assessment, an evaluation, an appraisal.  
Rated 'PG-13: Parental Guidance suggested under 13' just to be on the safe side. .  
Feedback: (_n_) information about a product, service, etc returned to the supplier for purposes of evaluation.  
Send all flames, compliments, questions, etc toGAKDragon(at)msn(dot)com Be sure to put "Re: Phantom" as your subject title or my dad might delete it (My Yahoo and MSN addresses catch all my spam, so don't bother trying to send me any).  
Author's note: This was inspired by talk and excerpts of Susan Kay's out of print novel Phantom, as well as the very last scene in the movie version, where Raoul visits his wife's grave and gets a shock. After reading Susan Kay's treatment of the details Leroux never told his readers, this story bit and refused to let go. You might notice severe disjointing between plot and characters, as I tried to remain true to the sequence of events as they took place on stage and in movie, but I pulled some characterizations and background information from Susan Kay's book.

PS: As I do not own a copy of the Leroux book and have not read it in 15 years probably, I do not remember if Erik's last name is ever given, nor Madame Giry's first. I've decided to invent one for Madame Giry and use the surname given by the author of Phantom of Manhattan, Frederick Forsythe (also a book I've never read). Since the surname I am using is Germanic in origin (this can be explained, possibly. While Madeleine is 100 French, what do we know of Erik's father Charles?), anyone who finds a better/more accurate last name within the pages of Leroux's book will be my hero forever.

PPS: My little trick of writing the dialogue actually in the foreign languages in which it's spoken is only good for the prologue. The new second chapter is a page of translations. After the Prologue (first chapter), the only foreign ones I use are obvious ones, like _Oui_ for yes and _Maman_ for Mother.

**Prologue**

_Paris, 1919_

The train from Prague arrived at the Paris station shortly after noon. It was a dreary day, drizzling every so often with gray clouds threatening more. An old man gripped the railing as he stepped off onto the platform. He readjusted his hat and gazed over the tracks towards the downtown area.

Breathing in French air, which he hadn't smelled since the turn of the century, he looked around for a café. There used to be one around the corner, but that had been years ago. The native walked a little ways down the platform in order to see down a side street.

A woman dressed in high fashion followed the porter carrying her bags. A young lady, very much the woman's daughter or granddaughter, tripped down the steps lightly. The younger woman, dressed in a sheath of Slavic-patterned fabric, looked over to where the baggage handlers were unloading. Seeing that everything was under control, she followed the gentleman.

"_Předek_!" she called in a foreign tongue.

The old man turned, and waved. "_Ano, Nicola_?" he asked in the same language when she was a few feet away.

"_Co hledáte_?" She gazed in the same direction he had, eyes hungering for the new sights of the City of Light.

"_Hledající výčep_," he replied. "_Já jsem vyhladovělý_."

She chuckled. "_Maminka je užívání si dávající pokyny_."

"_Pro změnu_," he remarked. He grinned suddenly, and put his arm around the young teenager.

She smiled at him expectedly.

"_Dovolte nájemné po_ brougham _než se tam dostaneš_."

"_Jeden _brougham?_ Proč_?"

"_Humor vaši Dědeček_."

She shrugged and allowed herself to be walked back to the baggage car. He discussed his plans with the older woman, who smiled delightedly at the idea. He went to hire a carriage while the ladies checked everything.

* * *

The old man felt years younger, standing in the front seat of the horse-drawn carriage. The coach hand had graciously allowed him to take the reigns along the Porte Maillot. The wind felt good in his hair. He urged the horses faster, laughing as they took a turn too close to the curb. 

The ladies sitting behind him squealed rather indecorously. He tossed his wife a grin and slowed the horses back to a trot, surrendering control back to their handler.

He put his hat back on his head, pushing it down to fit snugly. When he sat back down, the younger woman leaned forward and slung her arms around his neck. He smiled, patting her wrist.

"_Nous sommes presque là, Monsieur_," the driver said in French.

The man nodded and replied in kind. "_Bon, bon. Merci_."

The coach pulled up at the hotel and the old man sprang out. He remembered how old he was when his knee jerked involuntarily. He grabbed onto the carriage to steady himself.

His wife tutted at him. "_Je devine vous ne monterez aucune passerelle n'importe quand bientôt, vous_?" she asked playfully in French.

He grimaced at her and took his satchel from the floor boards. He ushered them into the hotel lobby to check in.

* * *

The porters he'd hired at the train station had dropped their luggage at the hotel, and the concierge called over bellhops to assist them to their suite. The man prompted the younger woman to leave the staff a tip, a task she performed very seriously. 

He chuckled at the teenager.

"_Dědeček, přestaňte obtěžovat_."

"_Auf Deutsch, bitte_," he said in German, just to be irksome.

She rolled her eyes and replied in French instead. "_Pourquoi est-ce que je dois apprendre l'allemand? Je n'ai jamais été, et Je n'irai pas n'importe quand bientôt_."

"_Bist du sicher? Ich bin dein Großvater. Wohin ich gehe, gehst du_."

She pouted and he laughed. He kissed her on the forehead and reassured her in Czech. "_Budeme mluvit o teto veci později. Přeměnit něco vyhradit na co ten hřbitov_." He indicated her vividly-patterned dress.

She nodded and took her suitcase to her room. He pulled off his gloves long enough to remove an object from a small wooden chest, then put them back on and sat to wait for the women.

* * *

The elderly man accepted his chauffeur's help out of the automobile. He began walking through the graves, his feet knowing the path better than his memory did. The chauffeur helped his wife and granddaughter as well.  
The women stayed back, as he had asked them to. His black gloves, that protected his ever-more feeble hands, caressed the gift he'd prepared. He found the object of his search, and sank to one knee before the woman's grave. 

He touched the picture, tears pricking his eyes as he saw how she'd aged. Well, he had aged, too. He was fast approaching ninety. His face had changed since she saw it last. While the red coloring of the infection that dominated his youth and middle age was still there, time had been a blessing to him. Wrinkles, crow's feet, and smile lines covered the infection's puckering. Time spent in the sun had reduced the severity of the redness. His white, scraggly hair seemed normal now for someone of his age.

He ignored the words engraved below her picture, instead traced the letters of her name. He had fashioned his after hers, in a way. In her honor, he had taken up the name of his old life and added hers to it – the only way he was able to have some part of her in his life.

She was the first woman he'd loved with a fire that went beyond the deep affection of siblings. She was also the first person to see his true face and look upon it without pity, fear, or hate, but instead sorrow – sorrow for him and the wretched existence he'd been forced into.

Bringing the gift to his lips, he kissed it, then carefully placed it beside the tombstone. Erik Christoph stood and said his final goodbyes, then turned away.

His balance faltered slightly, and he supported himself on the marble. His wife darted forwards to his side, her natural grace still there, even at sixty-nine. As she put her left arm around his waist, he smirked. He let go of the tombstone and leaned his big frame on her heavily, pushing. She quickly took a few steps to the side, lest he bring them both down.

He hung in that position – her arms cupped awkwardly under his shoulders, him leaning against her at a slant to the ground, his head pillowed on her chest.

Their granddaughter, Nicola, ran up to help, crying "_Předek_!"

He turned his face to the side and made snoring noises. His wife rolled her eyes and tried to pull him up. Nicola thwapped him on the arm.

It was a long-running joke born out of brief tragedy. Fifteen years ago, he had suffered from narcolepsy. Aggressive therapy and new medicinal herbs had shut it down, so now he teased his family with it, faking seizures in the most awkward or embarrassing places.

Erik tilted his head and made three or four sucking kisses on his wife's neck. She giggled and pulled her neck away. He stood tall, and turned to Nicola. "_Půjdeme_?" he asked in Czech.

"_Ano_."

He held his elbows out, and with a girl on each arm he made his way back to the automobile.

Madame Christoph remarked in French as they drove back, "_Il est bon qu'elle ait été heureuse. Elle a eu des enfants_."

"_Oui_," her husband admitted. "_Je ne devrais pas être le seul avec une demi-douzaine de petits-enfants. Je suis heureux, dans son intérêt. Sien était un bonheur que je pourrais ne jamais avoir donné._"

Nicola, who had studied French in order to converse with her grandparents and great-grandmother, followed the conversation with interest. This was the first time she'd heard her guardians speak of Erik's old love. She knew his life in Paris had been dark and lonely, but she had never asked about it. She was old enough now, she felt.

"_Dědeček_," she asked in Czech, "_kdo byla ona_?"

He looked startled for a moment, and her grandmother took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. He looked over at her, then back to their ward.

"_Ona byla jeden baletka ve baletní sbor_," he began, "_právě jako vaši babička_."

"_Nepodobný já_," his wife interjected, "_ona měl ten nejkrásnější hlasový v Opéra Populaire_."

"_Její vyjmenovat byla Christine Daae_," her grandfather continued, "_a ona stávat se životní na opera po její otec zanikl_…"

He told her the story then: of the popular ingénue everyone loved; the diva they didn't; the new owners and their patron; the fire that destroyed the company; and finally the Opera Ghost, whose musical genius went unnoticed in the wake of his madness and obsession over the ingénue's heart and mind.

Erik could see her eyes widen. She was transfixed, hanging on every word he gave about the love triangle. It had been the same way with her mother, Christina. He also knew his wife would not be satisfied until he lad out the gruesome truth: The Phantom had been a murderer and he'd forced his student to make a terrible decision between life with a monster or her lover's death.

"_Ona vybral ten Fantóm, že ano_?" she asked, a hopeless romantic.

"_Dovolil svém jít_," he admitted, more than little surprised by her sensibilities. Her mother had been the same way. His dear, devoted daughter, who'd followed the path of her namesake almost completely. She had been taught music by her father, practically grew up in the Opera House dormitories where her mother was a dancer, debuted on the stage at a sinfully young age, and found love just as she was becoming a star.

But Christina Christoph's love was a violinist in the orchestra. It was "A match made in heaven by the Angel of Music," people said humorously, most of them ignorant of the title Erik Christoph had once used.  
Anton Weber loved music, and he couldn't dream of giving it up just because he was getting married. He'd insisted that Christina should make her choice of whatever made her happy. He had not tried to hide his wish to keep the first chair in the pit, and subsequently Christina had stayed with her career, raising a family on the side with the help of her immensely proud parents.

Then they had been killed.

It was a terrible carriage accident, both horses having to be put down and the weight of the box itself crushing the two musicians. Their son, Jaromir, was already betrothed, so his grandfather extended a loan that would allow him to marry and support his wife sooner than they had planned. Jaromir had already repaid it, and Erik looked forward to meeting his and Illya's first child, Franz.

Nicola was too young to live on her own, so her grandparents took her in. She learned in much the same way as her mother, but she did her great-grandmother (and namesake) proud. She wanted to be the star of a ballet company.

Erik indulged her passions, finding a sort of half-peace in the more technical, subdued forefather of opera's dancing style. And of course, musicians were much less likely to ruin his music with their instruments than singers were with their inferior voices.

At the end of his tale, Nicola on the edge of her seat, his last words seemed to echo in the carriage: "_Ten Fantóm nikdy se nevrátil se do Opéra Populaire. A on už nikdy ne-vstoupil Paříž_."

His wife patted his knee. "_Jusqu'ici, cher_," she remarked in French. "_Jusqu'ici_."

They pulled up to their hotel and were assisted out. Erik turned and looked down the street in the general direction of the Opera House.

Mme. Christoph noticed his gaze and said, "_L'enchère est aujourd'hui_." She ended on an open note, not sure if he wanted to go.

"_Votre mère est là_," he replied simply.

She nodded, and they headed up to the hotel suite.

* * *

Erik took their shawls and coats and hung them in the closet, then dropped his hat and gloves on a table. Mme. Christoph went to lie down. Nicola grabbed his hand and pulled him around to the settee. Forcing him to sit, she flounced down next to him, tucking her legs underneath her. 

"_Dites maintenant moi le reste de lui_," she demanded in French.

He blinked at her. "_Le reste_?"

"_Qu'est arrivé au fantôme? Où est-il allé s'il ne revenait jamais à Paris? La femme qu'il a aimée a eu une vie de bonheur et de longueur avec un autre homme. Et lui_?"


	2. TRANSLATIONS FOR PROLOGUE

**TRANSLATIONS FOR PROLOGUE  
**(it is recommended you print this page and follow it as you re-read the Prologue).

CZECH:  
_Dědeček, Předek_ – Grandfather  
_Ano_ – yes  
_Co hledáte_ – what are you looking for?  
_Hledající výčep_. _Já jsem vyhladovělý_ – Looking for a café. I'm famished.  
_Maminka je užívání si dávající pokyny_ – Mama is enjoying giving directions (orders).  
_Pro změnu_ – For a change.  
_Dovolte nájemné po_ brougham _než se tam dostaneš_ – Let us rent a carriage to get there.  
_Jeden _brougham?_ Proč_? – A carriage? Why?  
_Humor vaši Dědeček_ – Humor your grandfather  
_Půjdeme_ – Shall we go?  
_kdo byla ona_ – who was she  
_Ona byla jeden baletka ve baletní sbor, právě jako vaši babička_ – She was a dancer in the corps du ballet, just like your grandmother.  
_Nepodobný já, ona měl ten nejkrásnější hlasový v Opéra Populaire_ – Unlike me, she had the most beautiful voice in the Opera Populaire.  
_Její vyjmenovat byla Christine Daae, a ona stávat se životní na opera po její otec zanikl_ – Her name was Christine Daae, and she came to be living in the Opera-House after her father died.  
_Ona vybral ten Fantóm, že ano_ – She chose the Phantom, didn't she?  
_Dovolil svém jít_ – He let her go  
_Ten Fantóm nikdy se nevrátil se do Opéra Populaire. A on už nikdy ne-vstoupil Paříž_. – The Phantom never returned to the Opéra Populaire. And he never again walked in Paris.

FRENCH:

_Nous sommes presque là, Monsieur_ – We are almost there, sir.  
_Bon, bon. Merci_ – Good, good. Thank you.  
_Je devine vous ne monterez aucune passerelle n'importe quand bientôt, vous_? - I guess you will not be climbing any catwalks any time soon, will you?  
_Il est bon qu'elle ait été heureuse. Elle a eu des enfants._ – It is good that she was happy. She had children.  
_Oui. Je ne devrais pas être le seul avec une demi-douzaine de petits-enfants. Je suis heureux, dans son intérêt. Sien était un bonheur que je pourrais ne jamais avoir donné_ – Yes. I should not be the only one with a half-dozen grandchildren. I am glad, for her sake. Hers was a happiness I never could have given.  
_Jusqu'ici, cher. Jusqu'ici._ – Until now, dear. Until now.  
_L'enchère est aujourd'hui_ – The bidding (auction) is today.  
_Votre mère est là_ – Your mother is there.  
_Dites maintenant moi le reste de lui._ " "_Le reste_?" "_Qu'est arrivé au fantôme? Où est-il allé s'il ne revenait jamais à Paris? La femme qu'il a aimée a eu une vie de bonheur et de longueur avec un autre homme. Et lui_?" – "Now tell me the remainder of it." "The remainder?" "What happened to the Phantom? Where did he go if he never returned to Paris? The woman whom he loved had a life of happiness and length with another man. What about him?"  
((And a short note for an upcoming translation: _Monsieur_, _et tu ici? C'est Nicolette Giry_ – Sir, are you here? It is Nicolette Giry.))

THIS SEQUENCE :

He chuckled at the teenager.  
"_Dědeček, přestaňte obtěžovat_." ((Czech; "Grandfather, stop annoying."))  
"_Auf Deutsch, bitte_," he said in German, just to be irksome. (("In German, please."))  
She rolled her eyes and replied in French instead. "_Pourquoi est-ce que je dois apprendre l'allemand? Je n'ai jamais été, et Je n'irai pas n'importe quand bientôt_." ((Why do I have to learn German? I never was there, and I will not go any time soon.))  
"_Bist du sicher? Ich bin dein Großvater. Wohin ich gehe, gehst du_." ((German; "Are you certain? I am your Grandfather. Where I go, you go."))  
She pouted and he laughed. He kissed her on the forehead and reassured her in Czech. "_Budeme mluvit o teto veci později. Přeměnit něco vyhradit na co ten hřbitov_." He indicated her vividly-patterned dress. ((We will talk upon this subject later. Change into something appropriate for the cemetery.))


	3. Chapter 1

((see prologue for summary and disclaimers. ALL CHAPTERS HAVE BEEN REVISED/REWRITTEN as of May 29, 2005. Please re-read from the beginning.)

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_Opéra Populaire: February 12, 1871_

The Phantom could still hear the voices of Christine and Raoul as he made his way down one of his many secret passages. He picked up the pace, determined to drive them from his mind. He hadn't the time to leave a note, and he hoped Mme. Giry would understand the goodbye he tried to give – smashing the mirrors methodically with the candlestick she and her husband had given him as a present, leaving the mask behind for her to remember him by.

He hurried through catacombs and caverns then up a flight of stairs. Emerging from the service entrance of a nearby building, he tucked his cloak carefully around him. He made plans as he rushed through the open streets. He would definitely have to leave Paris. Over the years, his salary as the Opera Ghost had left him with a large sum of money. He would need every penny of it to relocate.

He had enough to make do until his bank opened – to have taken more from the lair would have made the police suspicious.

He spotted a man walking quietly. He was looking up at the night sky and mumbling to himself, his wide-brimmed hat pushed high on his forehead so he could see. The Phantom stealthily approached him from behind, then sprang upon him. His black-gloved hand clapped over his poor victim's mouth.

He pulled the man off-balance and finally whispered in his ear. "I do not want to hurt you. I wish to purchase your hat, but I fear you will run screaming from my face and I cannot have that now." The man was still and quiet. "If I remove my hand, will you keep silent?"

The man nodded.

The Phantom slowly took his hand away from the victim's mouth but kept his arm around him. He plucked the hat off the man's head, setting it on his own. Digging in his pocket, he produced a 100-franc bill. He held it in front of the man's face, and a hand snatched it away greedily.

The Phantom dropped his arms, releasing his prisoner and swiftly ran away before the man could turn and see him.

Once hidden down an alley near the bank, he took the hat off and examined it.

It was made in the Spanish style, of black silk, with a low, cylindrical crown and wide brim. It would do nicely.

He fitted it more properly on his head, then removed a sheet of parchment from his pocket. Taking out a pencil, he wrote a note to the bank manager:

"_Good Monsieur: _

_"For years you have served me well, and I am well pleased with our business relationship. You have catered to my flights of fancy, treating my representative with the utmost respect. Nicolette Giry's reports to me of your attentiveness to her rather bizarre requests has given me much satisfaction. I have taken great peace in the manner in which you handled my finances, and I regret the occurrences that have prevented us from meeting in person. _

_"I also regret my next course of action. _

_"Due to circumstances beyond my control, I find myself unemployed and forced to leave Paris. I will, therefore, be closing my account with your bank, as I am uncertain where my journey will lead me next. _

_"Please consider this note, affixed with my signature and seal and delivered by my mute and disfigured servant, to be authorization of the closing of my account, and removal of all monetary holdings at your property. Don Juan will be in possession of the key to the safe you have graciously provided me with your compliments these last few months. _

"_I remain, Monsieur, your grateful patron,  
__Erik Muhlheim"_

Pulling off his left glove, he found a bit of charcoal and smeared it over the surface of his pinky ring. He pressed the pinky ring into the paper, leaving a somewhat smudged but still recognizable seal. He slipped his glove back on, then sat on an available crate to wait.

He touched his lips with leather-covered fingers. It wasn't the same. He suspected nothing would ever compare to the feel of her mouth on his. His blood had rushed through his veins in a way nothing before had ever done. It was an exhilarating experience, his first and last kiss. He would be forever grateful to Christine for being the one to provide it.

Strange, how one kiss could change everything. In all his thirty-nine years, he'd never received so much as a kiss on the cheek – not even on his good, unblemished side. As a young boy, he had begged his mother for two kisses on his birthday. She had refused, absolutely horrified at the thought. She had forbidden Erik to ever speak of it again, then had cruelly shown him his first glimpse of a mirror.

That had been the turning point of his youth. After that incident, his life had spiraled into tragedy and despair.

But, like the sun peeking through the clouds just now, there was a dim light of hope.

He stood when a pair of men came down the alley to unlock the office leading to the bank. The taller drew a pistol at the sight of the disguised Phantom. He tapped the man with the keys, who turned. "Can I … help you, monsieur?" he asked timidly.

Erik held out the note.

The Manager read it twice, then handed it to his assistant. "Come," he said as the other man read the letter. "We can help you."

He stepped inside and was ushered first to the office, where he signed "Don Juan" to the witness line on the papers they put before him.

During the few hours it took to count his money, remove the jewels from the safe, and arrange a secure escort to the city limits, the manager penned a quick note to their customer.

"Monsieur, if you would be so good as to give this to your employer," he said as he sealed the missive with a large amount of blue wax. The Phantom took it and nodded, slipping it into his pocket to peruse later.

"If you would … communicate to your master our best wishes on his continued financial success, and also our hopes that he will enjoy his time abroad. M. Rieu will help you outside. We have a carriage waiting for you."

Erik nodded and stuck out his hand. The bank manager did not hesitate to take it in his own, shaking it briskly. He bid them adieu with a wave and exited the building, heading straight into the waiting brougham.

He settled himself on one seat, placing his satchel on the one opposite. He eased back into the cushion with a sigh, and pulled out the letter.

_"M. Muhlheim,"_ it began, _"I received your instructions with no small amount of regret. You have been one of this bank's better customers for many years, and our staff has always been happy to help you. We shall continue to treat any request from Mme. Giry as though it were a missive from you. Perhaps you will accept this as a small token of our gratitude for your patronage? _

_"Thank you, also, for your detailed letter. I assure you, your servant had no trouble carrying out your orders. Our prayers are with you both, good monsieur, on what must be a perilous journey. _

_"Godspeed to you then, and should you ever find yourself in Paris in the future, do not hesitate to call upon our services. _

"_Your most humble servant,  
__Jacques Délange, Banque du Roi René."_

The unemployed and now homeless Opera Ghost closed his eyes and removed his hat. He dozed lightly during the coach ride.

* * *

Madame Giry held her candlestick high in one hand as she crept down the last few stairs. She took a deep breath, released the hold on her skirt hem, and pushed the last door open. "Monsieur?"

She stepped into the cavern fully. "_Monsieur_, _et tu ici? C'est Nicolette Giry_." There was no answer.

She looked around at the destruction the mob had caused, tears slipping down her face. They had ruined everything they could, leaving only the most sturdy of the furniture and the pipes of the great organ. The keyboard of the instrument had been smashed, the pedals ripped out.

Clothing and drapes had been torn and ripped, and every piece of paper had been burned. Mme. Giry cried openly, sifting through ashes and picking up manuscript pages that had survived, burnt at the edges. All his beautiful music was lost. The score to "Don Juan Triumphant" had been burned along with the chandelier, and now the rest of his glorious genius had gone the same way.

Clutching a pile of partially burned pages to her chest, she looked through the rest of his things for anything salvageable. She found a velvet cloth bag the looters had somehow missed and slid the music into it, then went around collecting the little knick-knacks that couldn't be destroyed. She took his shaving kit, two wigs that had been trampled into the dust but could be cleaned, the sculpted skull mask he had worn at the Masquerade Ball, his wax stamping kit, putting them all into the bag. She tied the top closed with a sash left from a heavy robe or curtain.

She bundled all his clothes together, bed linens too. It would take time, but they could be mended. She pulled down torn drapes that still hung on their rods, and gasped at the first mirror she saw. There was a large chunk missing from the center of it, with spider-web cracks radiating outwards. There was another mirror nearby, smashed in the same manner.

Then she saw the candlestick lying on the ground, and dropped the pile of fabric. She picked it up gently, looking it over.

It was the mate to the one she'd brought down here. It had come from a set her husband had given her friend upon "starting his new vocation." She had not, of course, told her husband the truth of who Erik was or what his position at the Opera House would be, but the sentiment had been the same.

At her husband's memorial service, the Phantom had left one of the brass candlesticks, never used, for her to remember the good soul by.

Mme. Giry looked at the broken glass on the floor. There was too much of it to have come from the other two mirrors. She moved the tapestry aside and gasped.

Unthinking, she fled down the tunnel until she finally lost the light. Grinning, she pulled on her skirt and turned around.

He was safe, she was sure of it!

She went back to the main chamber, and hid the fabric down the long passageway. Erik had hung the last tapestry _into_ the wall itself, between layers of mortar and brick. A person would have to cut the fabric to remove it from the wall – and that would damage its value to a looter.

The ballet mistress looked under the bed and in every hiding place she could think of. She knew, somewhere, the Opera Ghost kept a small fortune in case of emergencies stashed in the catacombs. Of his twenty thousand-franc salary, she only deposited 18,000 in his Paris bank. Her retainer was 150 francs per week, so she knew he had to keep at least 1,000 francs in the underground lair. The Phantom was too careful a man to leave the money lying around carelessly, so there must have been a lock box. The mob had probably taken it, and Erik would not be overly put out if they had, but he would have liked to know for certain.

Her search fruitless, she wandered through his rooms, thinking. Had they taken it? She didn't think so. If the unruly mob had taken it, the looters would have already been here. So obviously, he had hidden it so well even she couldn't find it.

He would have put it somewhere secure, somewhere it couldn't be accidentally discovered. Looking around her, she realized it also meant somewhere indestructible.

That left only the walls of the cavern and the pipes of the organ. The organ! Of course!

Erik took his daily exercise climbing the riggings and catwalks of the backstage. It made perfect sense for his secure location to be in such an unassuming spot. And yet, so like the man's dual personality, the spot was hidden in plain sight of anyone who entered.

Mme. Giry examined the pipes completely, then noticed how the ground sloped from left to right. The pipes farthest on the right appeared to be shorter, though the entire set was perfectly level. She approached the instrument from higher ground.

Flattening herself against the wall, she peered into the space between rock and brass. She pulled a square piece of parchment out from its hiding space.

It was a letter, sealed with a red wax skull and addressed to "Madame Nicolette Giry or Mademoiselle Marguerite Giry." The widow stepped back into the light.

She slipped a fingernail under the loose flap on the envelope and worked the wax seal free. Hands shaking slightly, she slid the note free, and read the distinctive script of her protector and friend:

"_My dear Mme/Mlle Giry, _

_"If you are reading this, then I have most certainly left the Opera House – perhaps for good. To the young Mam'selle, I beg your indulgence and your undivided attention. You shall be rewarded for your help by the time I am through. _

_"To my savior, this may be the only goodbye I can leave you. _

_"The chance has always existed that my location could be discovered by the cast and crew of the Opéra Populaire. If you are reading this, I have either died peacefully or that discovery has been made public. _

_"If I have died, I have left a will for your perusal with my lawyers in Rouen – you know the one. You found them, after all. You are the executor of my will, Mme. Giry, or that task will be undertaken by my old Persian friend, Nadir. _

_"If any of this information comes as a surprise to you, then I have had to flee. I will write to you when I can, but I advise you to take great care as to your own affairs. Take what you wish from my possessions, as I have nothing that cannot be replaced. _

_"Now, I have a gift for you. Look below your feet. The third stone closest to the wall from the last pipe should be loose. Underneath it is the lock box you were undoubtedly looking for when you found this letter (We shall speak of that transgression at a later time, Nicolette). You should be able to tell at a glance what key will open it. Everything you find inside that box is yours, Giry, and I believe you will be most satisfied by it. _

_"The second page of this note is for Madame Widow alone; the third page, young Meg." _

Madame Giry flipped the first page of the letter to the back of the pile and began reading the second. It was not exactly what she had expected of him.

"_My dear Madame, _

_"Words can never express the gratitude I have felt upon your actions on my behalf. I owe you a debt of life, Nicolette, one I may never be able to repay. As mere words are not enough, I have composed a small cantata for organ and strings in your name to convey my thanks. You will find it in your room, in the cabinet under the corner of your ceiling that leaks in winter. Pull out the top drawer, and in the false back you'll find a roll of parchment. _

_"I do believe you'll enjoy it, and I wish ours was the type of friendship in which I could play it for you. But that must wait. For we will meet again, Nicolette. I assure you on that point. _

_"Finally, do not try to find me, Madame. Unless I am ill or injured, I doubt I will be remaining in Paris. A visit to my banker is in order first, then to my lawyer, and from there, somewhere I haven't been before. Perhaps England, or Ireland. I've heard they have peculiar notions of melody and rhythm in the North Country. And their ghost stories intrigue me indeed. _

_"So let this be farewell, my friend. Never a goodbye, but an adieu for a while. _

"_Your Grateful Phantom,  
__O.G."_

Madame Giry smiled softly. He was such a thoughtful man, Erik. He had felt indebted to her ever since she had orchestrated his coming to the Opéra Populaire. He had designed and helped build it, but it had been her idea to suggest to M. Poligny that he "hire" him to haunt the Opera House and write one composition for the Opera's use per anum. "_Don Juan Triumphant_" was the first full-scale piece he had attempted. Most of the music he wrote for his managers were small arrangements of scenes that mysteriously appeared on M. Reyer's desk and worked perfectly with Mme. Giry's choreography of the ballet corps.

The widow smiled and brought out a key from her pocket. It was a duplicate of Erik's box five key, which used to be where she left his salary. Now it would open his last – well, perhaps his last – gift to her.

Still holding the letters, she knelt on the ground and found the stone he'd indicated. She pried it loose rather easily, and maneuvered the box from its hole. Dusting off the top, she fit the key into the lock and opened it.

She smiled at the sight that greeted her.

His stuffed toy monkey. It was ragged, floppy, and nearly black with dust, but it still had the eyes he'd sewn on and the cymbals attached to its hands.

She cradled it for a moment, then set it to the side. The rest of the box held money and old jewels – probably things of his mother's he hadn't had time to be rid of. She closed and locked it.

She took it to the passageway behind the shattered mirror and hit it among the folds of the draperies and bed sheets. She hid them behind the tapestry and picked up the small bag.

She blew out the candles as she exited, plunging the cavern into shadows. The underground lake threw reflections from some unknown light source on the rock walls.

Two candlesticks in hand, one lit, she made her way back to her room. Once there, she began packing. She doubted André and Firmin would want to retain her after this.

The velvet sack she hid at the bottom of one of her trunks, and she made a mental note to take the fabric she'd collected to the laundry room to be mended. His ruined clothes she would take with her. She'd already left room in one of her suitcases.

But now she had to tell Meg, and she decided to use the Phantom's help in the matter one last time.

* * *

Erik checked the pistol he'd bought from one of his escorts as the two men loaded his money in the saddlebags of the hoses he'd bought. In a brief fit of whimsy, he'd named the beasts César II and Ayeshette, though neither looked anything like the originals.

The male was a lovely mottled gray, but that was a far cry from César's white coat and mane. Ayesha had been a fawn-colored Siamese cat. The mare named for her was a cream-coated palomino, but there was no Persian blood in Ayeshette.

A brief spell of homesickness kicked in and the Phantom caught himself looking in the underbrush. His Siamese had left when the fire began, and she hadn't been seen since. She'd been a rare source of comfort and warmth and a perverse companion.

He would miss her terribly.

One of his escorts tipped his hat to Erik as he climbed up to the seat of the brougham. The other shook his hand, eyes carefully averted, and wished him good luck.

Erik tried not to think on his emotions during the journey to Rouen, instead planning the next few years. Ireland would be a good idea, he decided, just so he could say he'd been there. England was far too structured and aristocratic, like most of the rest of France.

The thirty-nine-year-old thought he also might like to see Italy, the birthplace of his beloved opera. But it may be too warm for his blood. He pulled up what he remembered of world maps in his mind. First to Rouen, then north to the Normandy coast and across the English channel. Then perhaps he could head north up the coasts of Wales and Scotland. Yes, that would be good, see the overabundance of castles in the land of Camelot. Aha! Stonehenge!

An architect like him, he would have to visit the mysterious wonder. He grinned happily, nudging César II into a canter.

Yes. New sights, new sounds, new buildings, new languages, new music. It was just what his soul needed after the confusion that was Christine.

* * *

Meg Giry read the line again. "It is my advice to you to get out of Paris!" She couldn't believe the Opera Ghost had written her a letter. She had always thought of him as her family's own private patron. He'd pulled strings and convinced Manager Poligny to put her as the head of the ballet corps, he had protected her mother's position countless times, and Meg was sure he had paid her mother in return for her assistance in his games and intrigues.

But this … She shook her head and re-read the letter in its entirety:

"_My dear Mademoiselle Giry, _

_"This may come as a great shock to you, I know. The Phantom of the Opera is a flesh and blood man – one who took your mother into his confidence and counted her among his only friends. For her sake, I sincerely apologize for the grief and fear I have caused you during your time here. _

_"On a side note, you should know your father was a good man, one of the best I have met in my long life. _

_"If letters and secrets revealed at your mother's death have led you to this note, you have my deepest sympathies. Your mother was the first truly kind soul I ever knew, and if I may be so bold I must admit that I will grieve her passing just as much as you. _

_"On a brighter note, it is my advice to you to get out of Paris! See the world, let the innocent imaginings of your childhood fly high and soar over the dismal shadows of the Opera House. If it is truly your wish to remain, as lead dancer in the corps, no one can fault you for it. But you have the potential to become so much more. I hate to see anyone waste their God-given talents, after being suppressed for mine most of my youth. _

_"Consider carefully the gifts God and your mother have left you. You can do wondrous things with them, Meg. _

"_Affectionately,  
__O.G."_

She looked up at her mother. "What have you decided to do, Maman?"

"Follow his advice," Mme. Giry replied. "I have always wanted to see Russian ballet, but have never left France. Now, there is no reason for me to stay. It will take years for them to rebuild the Opera House. And if you wish to stay in Paris, you will be able to. You are a grown woman, Meg. Erik was right; you have great potential."

Meg looked back down at the letter, then around her dormitory. This was the room she had shared with Christine before the soprano had moved to a single room. But now, Christine was getting married. She would probably never sing on stage again.

Meg Giry couldn't imagine that. She couldn't imagine not performing. But she also couldn't imagine dancing under anyone else's instruction. "I will go with you," she finally said.

Mme. Giry hugged her daughter in delight. "We will take the train to Moscow."

Meg smiled and began packing her things. Her mother left the room for half an hour and returned with a bundle of clothing in her arms. "Don't forget to collect anything the laundry may have."

"_Oui, Maman_."

Her mother took the clothing to her own room to put it in her suitcases. Meg never even noticed that it was made for a man's figure.


	4. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_May 17, 1871_

The man born under the name Erik Muhlheim – having chosen a new name for himself, he was known on the boat as Maestro Erik Christoph – scanned the coastline of northern Scotland as the ocean liner passed it. The salty wind spray caught the hood of his cloak and filled it out. The former Opera Ghost closed his eyes and inhaled the sea air. It felt good against his face – both sides of it.

He fingered the sleeve of the cloak. He'd bought it in Amesbury, in a souvenir shop that sold "Druid relics." Seeing the wonder of Britain had been … eye-opening fun. He could see, in his mind, the tools and techniques required to build it, but the historical guide assured him the site was far older than any of them.

He had become caught up in the tale of Camelot – the richness of the stories astounded him, and his genius had been inspired by their passionate belief in the legend. He could hear lyrical lines running through his head. Just the words for now, something along the lines of "Strange but true, when I'm close to you, stars fill the sky."

A melody line began to take shape, and he scrambled in his pockets for some manuscript. He found his pencil and began humming, notating the pitches that were hitting him. He wrote his lyrics in the spaces between the staves. He added some words to fit the musical phrase he'd conceived. The opening line became "Strange, dear/ but true, dear/ when I'm close to you, dear/ the stars fill the sky./ So in love with you am I." ((AN: "So In Love" – lyrics and music by Cole Porter))

He wrote furiously then, words hitting him anew as melodic possibilities swirled through his mind. The highland cliffs of Scotland went by unnoticed in their beauty. The only beauty he was paying attention to was the musical genius God had given him.

Some of the other passengers stared at his strange actions. Erik couldn't see them, couldn't hear their whispers, so locked in concentration was he. A curious little boy broke away from his father and scrambled up onto the bench Erik didn't even realize he was sitting on. The boy peered into Erik's lap as the composer's pencil hovered over the page. A word, a word, what word would fit next? "In love with …" what?

He smirked. In love with the night, of course.

A sailor landed from up in the riggings and stalked over to the bench. He snapped his fingers and scolded the boy. "Oi! Off with ye lad, git!"

The boy scampered off.

The sailor sat down, crossed his arms, and stretched his legs out, crossing his feet at the ankles. He watched Erik work for a bit, waiting for him to come to a stop.

The former Opera Ghost straightened a little, scratching his forehead.

"Ye writin' another ditty, Mr. Christoph?" the sailor asked in his quiet, gravelly voice.

Erik was startled, and blinked at Riley MacDougal. "Err, no," he replied in accented English. "It will be a love song, I think."

"Bah. Love songs."

The Frenchman grinned. "I compose opera music, Riley, not sea chanteys."

"That'd be a hoot: 'Fare thee well, you Barbary Merchants' on stage."

Unable to resist, the man with a demon's face hummed a note in his angelic voice. Riley laughed and playfully rolled his eyes as the tenor sang the first verse: "I promised her rings for her fingers/ sparkling flowers for her flaxen hair./ I swore that I'd never/ set sail in foul weather/ but stay by her side at the shore."

A deckhand joined in at the chorus from the upper deck, his baritone harmonizing with Erik's operatic quality: "Fare thee well, oh you Barbary merchants./ Fare thee well to the Spanish blockade./ Fare thee well to the straits of Gibraltar/ and the treacherous seas of Cathay."

Riley sang the second verse ("I gave her my word to be married/ and took her sweet vow in return./ I swore that I'd never/ set sail in foul weather/ but stay by her side at the shore." chorus ), his lilting brogue and bass timbre making the musician's nerves thrum. As exacting as the Phantom had been about the music in his Opera House, the sailors on the _Widow's Folly_ were very good. He'd enjoyed his time on the boat chiefly for that reason.

"I built her a cottage in Chatham./ Gave her children to sit by the fire./ I swore that I'd never/ set sail in foul weather/ but stay by her side at the shore." chorus

A musician with a talented ear, he was always listening for new melodies. The sailors sang their barroom ditties ("But our cottage is too small for a sailor/ without the blue sea and the sky./ Though I swore that I'd never/ set sail in foul weather/ I left her behind at the shore. Take me back, oh you Barbary merchants./ Let me risk the Spanish blockade./ Carry me to the straits of Gibraltar/ and the treacherous seas of Cathay.") while swabbing the decks and maintaining the lifeboats. Erik had tried to listen and learn their songs unnoticed, but his mangled face brought attention everywhere. In his favor, the sailors asked no questions. Among them, his face was a badge of honor. They all had scars, from bar fights and tavern wenches. Some even had tattoos, the symbol of a trip to the Orient.

They had welcomed the Devil's Child into their midst, teaching him drinking songs and sea chanteys. Wherever he went he was greeted with hails and good cheer. And when he had timidly shown them the knot at the heart of the Punjab lasso, they had roared with laughter at its effectiveness.

Erik had found his niche among them. Unlike most of the passengers, he'd found his sea legs quickly. He had yet to be sick, and spent nearly every day on deck. Several of the sailors spent short breaks with him throughout the day, genuinely interested in his work. They also kept the cruelly curious at bay.

He thought it strange that those he considered friends were all rough around the edges. Except for the Girys, they were all murderers, riff-raff, mercenaries, and thugs. But the sailors were honest and open about it. Erik was tired of hiding his face and his past. Perhaps that was why he felt so comfortable on the ship. With the camaraderie of the sailors, he didn't have to hide anything.

"What do you think you'll do in Ireland, Erik?" Riley asked when their song ended.

"I'm not certain. I'd like to hear their folk music, most definitely. I've been working on a story," he indicated the score he'd begun, "based on the legend of Camelot. But current Imperial sympathies in both our countries leave me with a want to editorialize on the political situation. Shakespeare's play, "Romeo and Juliet" is a prime example. And I've taken inspiration from you, too. What you've told me of the treatment of Irish and Scottish people at the hands of the British is deplorable, and deserves worldwide recognition."

Riley was stunned. He sat there blinking.

"Trouble is, I don't know how to write that," the composer finished.

The sailor was silent for a while. "Maybe ye'll find more inspiration in Ireland."

"Perhaps." He didn't doubt it.

He scratched his good temple with his forefinger and stared down at his music. He wrote the word "delirium" in the margin and played with the wording to make it fit the musical phrase he'd concocted. He smirked, thinking of how Christine's kiss had left him feeling delirious – high, elated, and reeling from the sense of joy.

He sung it softly to himself to test it, not noticing that Riley had gone back to work and the child from earlier was hovering near again. "In love with the night mysterious./ The night when you first were there./ In love with my joy delirious/ when I knew that you could care."

Yes, that would work. He kept writing, finishing the song as it was meant to be instead of worrying over how it would fit in his new opera. He'd written "Music of the Night" long ago during a drug-induced episode, and it appeared nowhere in _Don Juan_. He stopped for a moment, thinking.

He could shelf the Camelot project for now. After all, it was only an idea. This music existed in his mind – it was far more important. He made notes on the chorus section and repetition of verses, added some harmony lines, and set it aside.

He stared at his pencil, then brought up a fresh piece of manuscript paper. He began transcribing "Music of the Night," "Point of No Return," and grinned as he put "Phantom of the Opera" to the page. He briefly considered writing the story of the Opera Ghost, but dismissed it as being too risky. He would never be able to publish it for performance in Paris. Or, France at all, really. Only time could tell.

He put his pencil away and smoothed out the finished manuscript pages. He could still remember most of the score to _Don Juan_, but "Point of No Return" was the only song really salvageable from it. Clutching the music to his chest, he gazed out to sea again. He was facing west this time, and the sun was nearly set over the Atlantic. It was a molten red globe that turned the sky and waves orange.

Erik leaned his elbows on the rail and watched the color show. He'd seen sunrises and –sets before, over the rooftops of Paris, but never out in the open like this. He didn't think such an event could bring him a feeling of such peace, but, there it was.

When the sun hit the horizon, he turned and headed to his cabin. Though he had paid for first-class passage, having a room down in steerage gave him the privacy and freedom he required. He took his dinner in the Captain's cabin with the first mate, a man who shared his passions about music.

First Mate Arthur Strickland was the son of a composer, and an amateur violinist. He enjoyed Tchaikovsky symphonies, Mozart piano trios, and anything ever written by Beethoven.

Erik agreed with him on all of those, though he much preferred opera. Still, it was good to be able to hum entire sections of orchestral works for an admiring public who was knowledgeable enough to analyze basic compositional elements.

Dressed in a white shirt, charcoal gray waistcoat with matching cravat, black silk jacket, trousers, and boots, he placed his hat at a rakish angle, tilted to cover the disfigured half of his face. He left his cabin and made his way up to the premier deck. The stewards nodded to him, all business.

A crewman was exiting the Captain's cabin as Erik approached and held the door open for him. The Phantom smiled and softly said, "_Merci_." Mr. Strickland greeted him with a jaunty wave and a glass of brandy.

Not a little self-consciously, Erik removed his hat when he sat down. He had not worn a mask since he had left the Opera Populaire, and he still carried some fears of being ridiculed for his infection by the unblemished officers on the ship. Up till the point when he left he opera house for good, he had been wearing masks since he had escaped from the gypsy circus.

As a child, he'd been laughed at, beaten, harassed, and paraded around like the freak that he was. He'd quickly learned to not pay attention to the crowds, but it had been hard for a young boy of nine. He'd never seen one of those faces looking back at his disfigured own with anything approaching kindness.

Not until the wise Gypsy woman who made potions and herbal remedies, at least.

His early adult years had left him wary of those who showed pity at his fate – they generally turned around and used him for their own ends. So, he was finding his new philosophy a little uncomfortable. Children stared at the scars with curiosity, women looked away in pity, and men avoided him as much as they could. People just didn't know how to deal with him.

It didn't help his situation that Erik didn't know how to deal with people, either.

But the rough sailors who worked in the heights and depths of the ship he could get along with. He'd learned how to behave in their environment. And he would always be able to understand musicians. Even half-trained ones such as First Mate Strickland.

"So, Mr. Christoph," the officer began. "What new surprises are in store for us today?"

The Frenchman took a sip of wine before speaking. "I finished a song that could be usable in something, although I'm damned if I know in what yet. And I transcribed some pieces that I wrote before." He didn't extrapolate, but Strickland already knew what he meant by the statement. Most of his friends on board knew he'd had to flee Paris or face death, and also that he greatly regretted whatever it was that he'd done.

"Would you be willing to play one of them?" the Englishman asked politely.

Erik thought about it. "Music of the Night" was the only one he could perform in this audience, and he knew the accompaniment would sound well on violin. He picked up his satchel and removed the music from it. He gave Arthur his copy and poured himself a glass of water.

They both warmed up, Erik gargling and Arthur playing some finger exercises. The tenor indicated for the sailor to begin when he was ready.

Arthur lifted the bow and put it to the D string about an inch from the frog. With a slow, fluid down stroke, he played the first note.

It sang, filling the cabin with a pure sound. Erik smiled and nodded, gently conducting the violinist. He closed his eyes, listening for his cue for the first verse.

After the line "Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dream," the tenor's emotions overtook him and he sang with full power. Arthur slowed, then stopped playing, mesmerized by the beauty of the song.

"Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before. Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar." The note, as the Phantom held it, was steady and true. The sailor found himself swallowing over a lump in his throat. Then he looked in his music, located his place, and prepared to start playing again.

The friends made music together that evening, and Erik felt wondrous. He could sense the awe coming from Arthur in waves, and it fueled his half-starved need for appreciation. He'd never corresponded with ordinary musicians before. It was a rather pleasant change of pace. He would definitely have to try it more often.

After their impromptu concert they ate, Erik smiling as the First Mate lavished his music with compliments. It was with a lighter heart and a heavier belly that the composer retired to his cabin.

He first penned a note to himself, a reminder that he should check on the horses in the ship's hold in the morning. Then he plopped on the bed, happily but slowly pulling off his boots and whistling the sea chantey "Fifteen men on a Dead Man's Chest." Tomorrow was another day. Another day he could spend with his music, with the sea air, talking and laughing with his new friends.

* * *

_June 1, 1871_

The phantom was only vaguely aware of the commotion of unloading the _Widow's Folly_. He softly stroked Ayeshette's muzzle, holding César II's reigns tightly. His bags and belongings were at his feet and the horses' hooves. He kept them quiet, feeding César a sugar cube.

"Well maestro, we're ready."

Erik turned. Arthur Strickland was a few feet behind him, in full dress uniform. Erik nodded, and loaded what bags he could onto César's pack. He tied the last bag behind Ayeshette's saddle.

Gathering the reigns in one hand, he led the horses over to the large gangplank. He took hold of Arthur's outstretched hand. "First Mate, it's been a pleasurable trip."

Arthur shook his hand. "It's been a pleasure having you on board, sire." Strickland handed him a piece of paper with names and addresses. Erik smiled and promised to keep up the correspondence.

He shook hands with the captain, and carefully led the horses over the water. César II nickered, plodding forward awkwardly, with nerves. Ayeshette was more calm, following the hand of her Master on her reigns dutifully.

Once finally on dry land, he reached into one of his packs and brought out a carrot. He broke it in two, feeding one half to each of them as reward for their good behavior. He double-checked the weight on each horse, tightening sashes that needed it.

He mounted the female, wrapping César II's reigns around his forearm. Erik saluted the sailors with an upraised arm as he nudged the horses to a canter. He followed the boulevard away from the docks and into the heart of Galway.


End file.
